


Playing Footsie

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Foot Jobs, M/M, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:23:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1646879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is all the fault of <a href="http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/77240946028/bennyslegs-martinfreeman-pour-some-out-for">this post</a>.</p><p>Yep, it's a stag night foot job. Exactly what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Footsie

"So I am human. I'm not as tall as people think I am." Sherlock sits back in his chair and crosses his legs. "I'm nice-ish," he stretches out the SH, enjoying the feel of the letters on his tongue, "clever," John props a foot on his chair. Sherlock's legs start to uncross before he catches himself. The bottom half of his body feels heavy, dragging him down. "Important to some people, but I tend to rub people the wrong way."

Who does he know like that? Ah, yes, the same man whose foot is now mere centimeters from Sherlock's arse. Sherlock laughs. "Got it." He throws his crossed leg over both of John's and leans forward, scooting his arse back in the chair. "I'm you aren't I?"

John giggles and shakes his head. "No," he states simply, his head still oscillating back and forth. Lento. No, largo. No, lento.

Sherlock shakes the haze from his head and slumps again. "It's your turn, then." Sherlock feels the slight shift in air temperature at the edge of the chair, the pressure of toes changing the shape of the cushion, and pushes himself up the chair a bit. A memory of the story of the princess and the pea crosses his mind, and he chuckles at it just once.

"And how am I supposed to play if you don't know who I am?" John makes an melodramatic shrug.

"I could write another one."

"No."

"Then what," Sherlock slurs, leaning forward in the chair and pointing an accusatory finger, "do you suggest I do?"

John shrugs again. "I'm not the genius."

"This game is ridiculous." Sherlock slumps again and stares at the empty fireplace until he feels a nudge at his knee. He watches his leg bob as John pushes it with his other foot. This one's more like andante.

"Look it up on your phone," John says between chuckles, startling Sherlock from his regard of his own metronomic knee.

As he uses his free hand to pull the phone from his jacket pocket, Sherlock rolls his eyes. He tries to use the phone left-handed, but he can't even put in his passcode correctly. He blinks several times, thinking for a moment it is the fault of his eyes rather than his hands. "Damn," he whispers as he props the phone on the heel of the hand holding his drink. His chair jostles to the silent laughter of his former flatmate, and he starts typing in the name. He squints at John to read the spelling of it. "M. A. D-"

"Shut up."

Finally, the name is typed and search results come up. Sherlock settles in to scan her Wikipedia article, and listens to John's soft chuckle. He turns the screen to face John and drawls, "Is Wikipedia a suitable reference?" He turns the screen back to stare at the words. "It's the first thing that came up."

John laughs again. "Don't show me, you berk." 

"Oh," Sherlock's knee starts bobbing again, nudging against John's outside foot. "Did you see?"

"I saw, but I did not observe," John replies with a dramatic touch to the temple. Sherlock hunches in a fit of snorty laughter.

As he relaxes back into the chair's cushions, he commends, "Good one." His arse abuts John's toes again as he settles back in to read the article on his phone. To Sherlock's surprise, John still makes no move to retreat. It should occur to him that this behavior is strange, but at that moment, he is fixated on the warmth in his belly and the life story of one Madonna Louise Ciccone.

John smiles and returns, "I try."

After a few moments of engrossed reading, Sherlock feels movement at the edge of his chair cushion just under his butt, and he looks up over his phone. John watches him with the same relaxed smile he has all night. Did he imagine the sensation? Maybe his butt is falling asleep.

Sherlock wriggles up in the chair, spilling a bit of scotch onto his hand, which he quickly licks off, which causes him to almost spill again. John takes a long sip of his own scotch and chuckles. "Having a bit of trouble?"

Sherlock slumps back into his chair, bumping his butt into John's toes for the--what is it--third time that night. He tries to ignore the sensation of toes on his arse, awfully close to his perineum, though he doesn't particularly want the contact to end. He shushes John and tries to go back to reading. Has the type on his phone always been this small?

Sherlock feels movement on his arse again. "Are you," he pauses, trying to categorize the sensation, "wiggling your toes?"

"Maybe," John draws out the syllables as he wiggles his toes one more time, and a grin spreads on his face.

Sherlock tries to watch John's foot, but he can't see it from his slumped position. "And why?"

"Bored," John replies with a chuckle which blooms into a guffaw. "It's better than shooting holes in the wall."

Sherlock's own chuckle slowly bubbles up as he watches his former flatmate crack up at his own joke. As the laughter dies down, Sherlock tries again to read the article on his phone, but he feels the wiggle of John's toes again. Like a child tugging at the apron strings of his mother. "Are you feeling deprived of attention?"

John shrugs and throws his arms wide. "It is my stag night."

Sherlock bolts upright, and as a result, his hips angle forward, and Sherlock's perineum and bollocks slide against John's toes. Sherlock's breath hitches, the sensation jolting up his spine, before he recovers, propping his left elbow on his knee and pointing at John. "You were the one who told me to look it up."

John flexes his toes, and breath forces itself from Sherlock's lungs. His chest heaves and heat spreads in his groin as he watches and waits for John's reply. John watches him back. His own breathing speeds up and his mouth falls agape. One of them should be retreating, shouldn't they? But John is watching him and dragging his tongue across his bottom lip, slowly. So slowly. Sherlock would like to snatch it between his teeth.

Why isn't John retreating? Why isn't Sherlock retreating? He cocks his head to consider the turn of events, but another adjustment of John's foot makes all the thoughts he was trying to wrangle fly from his head. He lets go of a long, ragged breath and closes his eyes tight.

"Sherlock?" John says, his voice calm but thick. "Are you with me?"

Sherlock's hips rock back and then forward again in an involuntary move that spreads heat through his cheeks. He opens his eyes and nods. "Do you want to keep playing the game?" He aims for nonchalance, but his voice comes out breathy and rough.

John shakes his head. His eyes are hooded, his cheeks flushed. "No."

Sherlock huffs and his hips rock again. He grips his phone and drink and tries to concentrate on those sensations, estimate the approximate temperature of the glass, anything that might bring his body back under his control or wrest his attention from his rapidly growing erection. But it's useless. He tries to say, 'What do you want to do now?' but it comes out as a long keen that sounds vaguely like, "Wha-"

John slides his toes up the length of Sherlock's erection, now full and straining against Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock looks down at John's foot nestled against his groin and watches his own hips rock against it. God, it's mesmerizing.

"John," Sherlock huffs, not a question but an exultation. "God."

A smile quirks on John's lips as he watches Sherlock rock against his foot. Sherlock grips the arms of his chair, still struggling to stay in control, expecting John to end this any second. His breath heaves and puffs, and he can feel the flush spreading on his face, down his chest, pooling and roiling in his groin.

"Just let go," John finally says, his voice so calm and even that it startles Sherlock, and he falls back against the cushions.

Sherlock's phone and drink fall to the ground with a clatter, smash, and tinkle. "Shit," he hisses and peers over the side of the chair to see his glass in three pieces and expensive scotch soaking into the rug.

"Fuck it," John instructs, and Sherlock's head lolls back into the chair. Cotton socks rub against wool trousers rub against silk boxers in a cacophony of rough and smooth.

"Oh," Sherlock huffs, his hips now completely out of his control, pressing up roughly against John's arches. "OK."

He hears John's giggle in the periphery of his awareness, now centered on the heat and friction of John. His mouth falls open and rapid, shallow breaths escape interspersed with words Sherlock is unaware he is forming. He can feel the arch of John's foot, the curling and uncurling of toes. The cracks in the ceiling rearrange themselves into spidery fireworks. Sherlock's hips rock in time with John's foot. Or John's foot moves in time with Sherlock's hips. Sherlock can't tell which.

Sherlock finally closes his eyes, but he can still picture the whole scene with perfect clarity. The matching flush of their faces and tempo of their breathing. John's bland tan socks work wrinkles in and out of the fabric of Sherlock's trousers. The Rizla papers still attached to their foreheads crinkle softly; the sweat on their brows loosening the adhesive. Sherlock's chest rises and falls in ragged irregularity. His hips lose rhythm as the tension coils tighter and tighter in his groin.

Sherlock drops his hand to the top of John's foot, feeling the muscles undulating beneath his fingertips. He drags his fingertips over the spaces between the bones, and John shivers.

He does it again, and John draws back. "It tickles," he warns before putting his foot back. Sherlock manages a chuckle through the huffs as he lays his hand back over John's foot.

Sherlock's back is forced into a hunch as his abdominals contract. His hand grips John's foot, pressing, kneading, until John's foot is acting as little more than an intermediary between Sherlock's hand and cock. Sherlock manages to open his eyes through the haze of arousal to look at John.

John's eyes are wide and dark, his mouth agape, his chest heaving. John meets his gaze, and Sherlock's eyes snap shut again as his orgasm overcomes him. He shouts in time with each hot spurt of semen, and he hears John groan, "Fuck," in there somewhere.

"John," Sherlock whispers as the last aftershock pulses and he collapses against the chair. The perspiration on the back of his neck adheres his skin to the chair.

"Wow," John responds, "I-"

"Yoo-hoo," Mrs. Hudson calls from the stairs. John's foot drops to the floor, and Sherlock jerks up in the chair. As Sherlock re-buttons his jacket, Mrs. Hudson continues, "Client!"

"Hello," John chimes, and Sherlock echos. Mrs. Hudson retreats down the stairs with a familiar wobble to her head.

"Come on," John slurs, leaning forward to prop his chin on his hand. His flush could be easily explained by his inebriated state. Sherlock supposes his face likely sports a similar flush, and the mix of alcohol and reward neurochemicals in his system force his visage into a goofy grin.

"Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock hears John whistle, and after a moment, he realizes the question requires a response.

"Ah, yes," he responds. "Of course." He stands. "Hello." He looks around until he spots the spare chair. "Please," he starts again as he puts the chair in its place, "have a seat. I just need to pop to the loo."

**Author's Note:**

> Without the help of my wonderous beta, emmagrant01, this would have been terrible.


End file.
